geant gave him no time for consideration, but promptly led Amalia within the porch, and motioned his old comrade to rebolt it. The latter then led the way into a sort of antechamber half parlour, half kitchen. By the stove "crooned" an aged dame, seated on a low stool. Like Jetsmark's wife, she wore the Freisland costume, but her elbows rested on her knees, and her face was buried in her hands, and she rocked to and fro, as though in pain or tribulation.

Again Jetsmark and the old servant, Veit Pedersen, exchanged a few earnest whispered sentences and then the sergeant respectfully requested Amalia to withdraw the shawl which veiled her countenance. She did so, and for the first time looked fully at Veit Pedersen. She saw a thin withered old man, seventy-seven years of age, who stooped considerably, and evidently was very weak, and tottering slowly to his grave. His face was filled with rugged lines, and he had not a tooth left in his gums, and hardly a hair on his head. Yet this poor aged feeble creature had in his prime been a right valiant warrior; bravest of the brave; the best swordsman of Rantzaw's dragoon regiment of terrible fame; a man of unstained probity, and of devoted loyalty to the outlawed master whose sole body servant he had been for the last quarter of a century. His once piercing but now dim eyes gleamed through their filmy rheum as he gazed at the stranger lady.

"Madame the Countess," said Jetsmark, "may_it_please you, my lady, to now tell Pedersen with your own lips whom you are, and the purport of your visit."

Amalia instantly complied.

"Good friend," said she, "I am Amalia, wife of Lars Vonved, the grandson of your master, Knut Vonved-whom I must see by command of my husband."

Veit Pedersen muttered some inarticulate words, but instead of replying directly to Amalia, he went up to the old woman, Magdale, his wife, who had hitherto not even turned her head to regard the visiters, and shook her by the shoulder, and spake eagerly to her in their native tongue. She quickly turned her lacklustre eyes towards Amalia, and hastily tottered to her feet. The hus

band and wife drew quite nigh to Amalia ere they addressed her in Danish.

Thou art his wife!" eried Veit. "The wife of Lars!" echoed Magdale.

"It is true, my friends; I am the wife of Lars Vonved."

They both looked at Sergeant Jetsmark, as though to ask-"Is this indeed reality? Or do we dream?"

Jetsmark promptly responded.

"Veit and Magdale! this lady is indeed the Countess of Elsinore. I know it-I have heard her countersigns-I have seen her tokens-I will answer with my life for the truth of her words. Obey her as ye would obey the Count himself."

Thereupon the two old people seized her hands and pressed them to their shrivelled lips, ejaculating and sobbing. They would even have knelt at her feet had she not restrained them.

"Dear God! that we should live to see the wife of our beloved young master! His wife! The wife of Lars Vonved!" cried they. "He slept in my arms when a little child, many and many's the hour!" sobbed Magdale. "He has climbed my back a thousand times!" murmured Veit. "I taught him all the tricks and feats of boyhood-I recited to him the deathless deeds of his own glorious ancestors-I gave him his first lessons in arms. Ay, ay, I am a decrepit old worn-out creature now, but time was when I was as straight as an arrow, as lithe as a leopard, as strong as a lion, as fearless as a Valdemar. "Twas I who first taught Lars to wield his sword, for I once was a matchless swordsman, and in many a deadly field have I fought, and fleshed my blade, and crimsoned it to the hilt with the ruddiest heart's blood of valiant foes. Ay, ay, time was, and time is. See what I am now! And look at Magdale, my lady! Look at my dear old wifefor she is even yet dear unto me. Good Lord! fifty years agone I and Magdale were as handsome a couple as ever sun shone on. We are both natives of Amager-born the same month of the same year-and before I went to the wars I courted her, and ah's me! could you have seen us as we danced on holidays! A finer young fellow than myself, and a more handsome sprightly damsel than Mag

dale, ne'er footed it together! In all Amager there was not one worthy to hold a candle to her!"

Veit Pedersen paused a moment, and then he and Magdale, with all the natural eager garrulity of age, began to remind each other of passages in their early life, and of incidents concerning the childhood and youth of Lars Vonved. It was a touching scene, which at any other time would have affected and interested Amalia exceedingly, but her heart was enwrapped in the one absorbing idea of the object of her visit, and she turned to Jetsmark with an appealing look. He understood her, and energetically reminded Veit that if he loved Lars Vonved and wished to aid to save him, he must lose no time in preparing his master to receive her. The old man sighed and moaned like one aroused from a pleasant dream to face painful realities, and after exexchanging a few sentences in Freisian with Jetsmark, quitted the room.

"I have convinced Pedersen that he must rouse our old master sufficiently to enable him to understand what you require," observed Jetsmark.

"Is there, then, a doubt of that?" asked Amalia, with a shudder.

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God only knows!" was the desponding reply. "He sometimes, as Pedersen has told me, hardly uncloses his eyes, or speaks a word, for days together. He exists only in the past."

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But to-night?" and Amalia clasped her hands with sickening apprehension.

"To-night, my lady? God is very good. God is all-merciful and allpowerful!" devoutly exclaimed the old sergeant.

"What meanest thou ?"

"Madame the Countess, I hope and I fear but hope is stronger than fear. Knut Vonved this very night completes the 104th of his age." year

"I know that.'

(which he jumbled queerly together owing to his excitement), he announced that "his Highness the Prince" would immediately "receive Madame the Countess of Elsinore. Occasionally this devoted servant and follower would simply and affectionately speak of Knut Vonved as "my master;" but he yet more frequently proudly spoke of him as "the prince," or "his highness"--and the title was real, not imaginary. Knut Vonved was by birth a prince, albeit he, like the prior heirs of the royal line of Valdemar subsequent to their family ceasing to be the ruling dynasty of Denmark, virtually ignored the mere princely rank, to bear the yet loftier (because, in Denmark, peculiarly significant and symbolical) title of Count of Elsinore

first subject of the kingdom. When, however, his attainder specially restricted the forfeiture of his titles to himself, and his grandson Lars legally became Count of Elsinore, he still was incontestably a prince, inasmuch that the Empress Catherine had solemnly invested him with that dignity after his last great victory as a commander-in-chief of her armies; and although his attainder deprived him of every title derived from Denmark, it did not and could not affect his foreign dignities, and he continued de jure et de facto, a prince of the Russian Empire, of the first class.

Jetsmark and Amalia both questioned Pedersen, and they learnt that Knut Vonved was now, and had been all day, far more "himself" than for months and even years previously. He understood Pedersen at once, and intimated that he even expected the visit of Amalia, and would see her forthwith. Be it here understood that Knut Vonved had long known that his grandson Lars was married to the daughter of Colonel Örvig.

"I shall stay here and await your pleasure, Madame the Countess," said Jetsmark with mingled anxiety, respect, and sympathy.

Pedersen then led Amalia towards the presence of his centenarian master. Passing through the ante-room they crossed a large closet in which Pedersen and his wife slept, and beyond that was a passage about ten feet in length, wainscoated with walnut, which was lined with faded blue velvet hangings to the height of a man. At the extremity was a nar

row door, covered with green baise, and studded fancifully with brass nails. It opened at a touch, and Amalia at last stood within the chamber of Prince Knut Vonved.

It was a low oblong room, hung on all sides with ancient threadbare tapestry, representing scriptural subjects -possibly the work of some of the ladies of the house of Valdemar, long centuries ago, and hence kept as an heirloom. With this exception the room was almost devoid of ornament. It contained a few rush-bottomed chairs, a round oak table, and a bed, without posts, or canopy, or curtains, and steeply sloping from head to foot. On the tapestried wall by the bedside hung a field marshal's baton, a pair of very old war-worn holster pistols, and a superb sabre, the hilt of solid gold richly chased, terminating in a lion's head, with diamonds for eyes. Various precious stones thickly studded the scabbard, both edges of which were sheathed in gold; and acorns, and oak, and laurel leaves intermingled, all exquisitely wrought of the same metal, were attached in bold relief the whole length on each side.

That field marshal's baton Knut Vonved had received from Catherine, his imperial mistress, five years before he resigned her service, and he bore it in hand during as many subsequent campaigns, in each of which he won for her repeated victories-that sabre was a personal gift from the great Empress, who in presence of her brilliant court, buckled it around him with her own hands-those battered holster pistols had been presented him by his father when he first joined the army in his sixteenth year, and throughout his warrior-life he never used any

other.

Though so humble, the chamber was scrupulously clean, and yet poor old devoted Veit and Magdale were the only persons who ever attended on its occupant or dwelt beneath the same roof with him.

And where was he-the prince by birth and by heroic deeds of armsthe field marshal who had repeatedly led mighty armies to victory-the lion-hearted warrior and sage statesman--the centenarian outlawed head of the kingly race of Valdemar?

A huge softly-cushioned arm chair was placed by the side of the stove, and deeply buried in its embraces was

the motionless bent figure of an exceedingly aged man. His outer dress was an ample fur robe, intrinsically of very great value, for it was entirely composed of the rarest Russian sables. His head was nowhere bald. Thick flakes of glossy hair descended on his shoulders to a great length, and mingled with the beard which descended far below his breast. Hair and beard were alike white as the driven snow. His chin rested on his bosom, and his eyes were closed. Amalia was astonished to behold scarcely a wrinkle on his grand majestic features. His countenance itself was that of a most noble looking man in green old age. It was full-fleshed; the complexion was quite fresh and delicate, and he had not lost a tooth. One must look again at the hair and realize the excessive bodily debility, to be convinced that Knut Vonved was indeed a man who had lived a full generation beyond the span prescribed by the inspired Psalmist. Amalia saw at the first glance that his features had a marvellous likeness to those of her husband and her boy; and they all three bore indisputable resemblance to an authentic protrait she had once seen of the mighty founder of the line of Valdemar.

Veit Pedersen went up to his master's chair, and announced with an unaffected air of the most profound respect, that the Countess of Elsinore was present. Knut Vonved did not appear immediately conscious of what was uttered, but in reality his hearing was only very slightly impaired, and he now both heard and understood every word. Slowly he unclosed his eyes and looked steadily towards Amalia, who had remained standing just within the room. She met the gaze of those keen blue eyes, which were undimned by film, and yet retained much of their piercing brilliancy.

A moment's pause, and Amalia bounded forward and knelt close at his feet with clasped hands.

"Prince Vonved! save him! save my husband! Thou only cans't! "Who art thou?"

Had not Amalia seen his lips unclosed and steadily move, she would have doubted whether Knut Vonved had really uttered these words-for they were spoken in a low yet perfectly clear and peculiarly sweet tone.

"He bade me tell you that though the ship sailed fast, the eagle has at last dropped the sword on its deck!" "I know it. What does he need?" Amalia repeated her husband's words.

"Dost thou love thy husband?" "More than life itself!" Very slowly and with extreme labour Knut Vonved extended his right hand and laid it on her head, as she knelt by his side.

"Bless thee, my child! May the God whom I worship and in whose dread presence I shall this night appear, bless thee now and for evermore!"

Indescribably solemn and thrilling was the manner in which he uttered these words.

"Thou wilt save him!"

"I will. Fear not, my child. Thy husband shall be saved.'

Knut Vonved spake with the calm inspiration of a dying prophet-king. He then gave precise orders to Veit Pedersen to search in an old chest in a recess behind the tapestry, and in a few minutes a wrought-iron casket was produced, and from it the mysterious whale's tooth was taken and delivered to Amalia.

Again Knut Vonved spake-
"Thou hast a boy? Bring him

hither."

"On the morrow?"

"My eyes will never behold the dawn of a morrow on earth. I must see him now-see him ere I die."

Amalia was fain to comply with the desire so touchingly expressed. Sergeant Jetsmark was sent for Wilhelm, whom he quickly brought into the presence of his great-grandsire.

Long and silently did Knut Vonved gaze at his descendant, and to the full as steadily was his yearning gaze returned by the most princely child.

"Such as thou art, once was I, wellnigh a century ago!" murmured Knut Vonved. "Our race has not degenerated."

The speaker made a feeble movement, and Amalia anticipating his intention, caused her boy to kneel, and half guided, half lifted Knut Vonved's right hand till it rested on Wilhelm's head, and then, with awful fervour the patriarch pronounced a blessing on the child.

A solemn pause ensued, broken by the voice of Knut Vonved, and Amalia was struck by the wondrous, unearthly radiance which now o'erspread his countenance.

Thy mother has taught thee to pray?" said he to the yet kneeling boy.

"Yes; I say my prayers night and morning.'

"Thou knowest our Lord's Prayer?" "Yes."

"Let me hear thee."

Wilhelm immediately clasped his little hands, and still fixedly meeting the beaming gaze of Knut Vonved, he commenced in a clear modulated voice the thrice hallowed prayer :

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Fader vor du som er i Himlene! helliget vorde die navn, tilkomme dit Rige, skele din villie som i Himmelen saa og paa Jorden””.

A cry from his mother interrupted the child in the middle of the prayer. Knut Vonved's hand inertly slipped from Wilhelm's head—his eyes closed in death.

Thus passed away a once mighty man-one of the bravest, the noblest, the best, of the illustrious race which sprung from the loins of Valdemar the Great.

The last sight Knut Vonved saw on earth was the bright young face of Wilhelm-the last sound he heard was the voice of the child uttering the Lord's Prayer.

To enumerate the objects of interest about Mucruss and the Middle Lake may resemble more nearly the catalogue of the auctioneer than the sketch of a lover of the picturesque; nevertheless, we think it well to particularize-with a view to the convenience of tourists who may follow us -that they may ascertain from our experience ere they try it themselves, how the day may be allotted to the work before them.

1. The Abbey Ruin; 2. The Demesne; 3. Brickeen Bridge; 4. Dinis Island; 5. Torc Waterfall; 6. Mangerton, not Mainger-ton, but Mángurton.

These will well employ the day; they filled ours with incessant occupation, and as ceaseless enjoyment.

We attacked Mangerton first, fair and fasting, at four o'clock in the morning our object being to cram within the sixteen or eighteen hours devoted to sight-seeing, as much of a varia cona for eye and mind, as the receptive faculty could contain.

As in Berlin, Strasbourg, and Vienna, our policy has ever been to scale the altitude of the Schloss, the Cathedral, the San Stephan, that we might trace each city's mazy plan from a favourable point de vue, and mark, as in a map, the whereabouts of our position in our future rambles: so here we would look down, as it were, from the Eagle's Nest, upon the expanse of the Lakes, and settle the spots upon which our successive swoops were to be made. Our sentimental object was to gratify that love for mountains which most persons of taste indulge. We, ourselves, vegetate habitually in a flat country, and our ideal of Paradise is a land of hills. To breathe the air of mountains, pluck the heather, bilberry, and arbutus of mountains, drink of the spring upon the mountains, tread the bright wholesome herbage of the mountains, shelter beneath the pine groves of the mountains, clamber up the granite rocks of the mountains, gaze upon the boundless panorama of the mountains

these were objects of desire, the longing for which nothing could stay but their free enjoyment.

See us start in broad but still greyish daylight for Mangerton, the base of which is not quite two miles from our hostel. We meet with no disaster on our sure-footed colts, but there occur not unamusing mishaps of sundry kinds, incidental to travel: a walking-stick drops and is lost for ever, a hat gets swept off by a neighbour's umbrella, a pocket-handkerchief takes to itself wings, and is gone; but above all, the indispensable Guide-book is forgotten. For that, however, there is a remedy in the countless corps des guides of the innumerable tribe of O'Donoghoe. Arrived at the base of the ascent, a bridle-path sweeps off to the right, which our ponies follow with admirable tact and perseverance. From the Devil's Punch-bowl-a dark and lonely tarn, sunk deep amid perpendicular rocks, nearly two miles up the mountain-a foot-path conducts to the summit, which is a long boggy level. Here, from an elevation nearly 3,000 feet above the level of the sea, such a scene discloses itself as is without parallel in the British Islands. Grander, wilder, and softer scenery may be found elsewhere, but not the same variety packed in so narrow a compass. The extent of range is wonderful, too, considering that Mangerton is not so high as some of the bordering Reeks. In the far west and south is caught a gleam of the Atlantic; to the north the estuary of the Shannon; while rugged and ragged mountains are wedded to the loveliest and fairest lakes and lakelets under the sun, in countless profusion under our feet.

The Three Lakes proper of Killarney lie thus from where we stand: the Upper Lake, due west, with Crummaglaun mountain intervening, but not intercepting the view; the Middle or Tore Lake, with Tore Mountain about north-west, lying between; and the Lower Lake, or Lough Lene, nearly due north. The mountains